


The One Where John Cooks

by halloa_what_is_this



Series: Hidden Talents [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Care-taking, Cooking, Gen, John is a sneaky cook, Sherlock gets hungry, but a good one, loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloa_what_is_this/pseuds/halloa_what_is_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never used to get hungry before. But now that John has shown his hands are good for patching up a patient as well as gutting a fish or filling a chicken with fantastic herbs and cooking it into oblivion, he might consider surrendering to the feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where John Cooks

Something smells good. Something smells absolutely heavenly. Something smells like it should be served in golden plates and eaten with silver forks with angelic choirs singing hymns in the background. If Sherlock was religious, that’s exactly how he would serve whatever it is he is smelling. But since he is not, he merely slinks towards the kitchen to find out where that divine smell is coming from.

John is standing at the stove, stirring a large wooden spoon in a pot, music flowing from the stereos, something with smoky trumpets and blood-curling sighing. The good kind. The kind that makes all the red cells in one’s body suddenly make a trip downwards.

As does John standing at the stove. John _cooking_. John cooking something _absolutely fantastic_.

Sherlock sneaks in the kitchen quiet as he can. There is a small notebook lying open on the kitchen table, pages stained with different brown colours with the occasional red clearly from an accidental drop of wine. The spine is broken in places, especially on this page. Sherlock leans in.

What he is looking at is definitely writing but he has no idea what language. The squiggly lines and large dots have something very distinctively John in them, however, and Sherlock admires the simplistic beauty of each.

“Pashto.”

John is still stirring the insides of the pot with the spoon but has turned to look at Sherlock. He is smirking widely.

“Have a good nap? Looks like it.”

Sherlock huffs loudly and pats his hair down as he makes his way towards the stove and stops to lurk behind John to look in the pot.

Onions. Turmeric. _Yoghurt_. And coriander.

“It’s korma,” says John. “With lamb.”

 _Korma_.

It’s plain ordinary stew. And it smells absolutely amazing.

Sherlock sniffs.

“How come the recipe is in Pashto?” he asks, voice creaky, nose as close to the pot as he dares without actually sticking it in. “I didn’t know you even spoke it.”

“Don’t. Can’t even read the recipe actually. I remember it by heart and just have it open to check if I forget something. I don’t know the alphabet but I know what certain combination of lines and dots mean. A woman in this small town taught me how to make it. She actually had the recipe written down and I copied it from her before we started cooking.”

He gives one final stir and turns off the heat. He takes the lid off another pot that has been hiding behind the bigger one with the korma inside it. Cloud of steam rises but the smell is milder, more recognisable.

Sherlock peers.

Just plain rice.

Plain rice and plain old stew. And he feels like he will faint if he isn’t allowed to eat them soon.

He must be drooling because John swipes his thumb under his lip gently.

“Take the plates and set the table,” he points at the cupboard. “There’s a bottle of white cooling in the fridge.”

Sherlock gets the cutlery, even dugs into the drawers to find two napkins and places them next to the plates. The place where John’s thumb touched his face feels like it’s on fire, and he swipes his own thumb over it once or twice. The burning feeling only intensifies with the touch, so he dips his thump into his glass of fridge cold wine and spreads it across his lower lip.

John walks to the table, sets the pots down and scoops up a generous helping of rice on Sherlock's plate. Sherlock sits down to wait. John hands him his fork.

The first bite of lamb is hot and melts on his tongue so fast it burns a bit.

The second makes tears gather into the corners of his eyes and a moan rise from his throat.

John smiles and takes a bite himself.

They eat in silence, John taking small, regular-sized bites, a sip of wine now and then. Sherlock gobbles up his food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks (which technically is true). He eats and eats and eats, gets the hiccups and has to down a huge gulp of wine.

John smiles again.

He’s eaten half his rice and most of the sauce. Sherlock lunges for a second helping while John, apparently already full and content, lifts his arms up and stretches leisurely. His legs stretch out, accidentally brushing Sherlock’s, and he decides to let his toes rest against Sherlock’s calves.

Sherlock drops the rice spoon and hiccups.

 

 

\\\

John is baking. Cinnamon rolls. With cream cheese and lemon curd mix in the middle _and_ on top.

Sherlock drools again.

Even more so when he notices that the rolls waiting to be put into the oven are not the only hot thing in the room.

He would be cursing his cliché choice of thoughts if they weren’t absolutely true.

John is wearing an apron this time. To protect his beloved jumper from flour dust and spills apparently.

Sherlock almost bites his tongue off because of his choice of thoughts this time. He soothes the burn with a spoon dipped in lemon curd John offers him. It’s not cold and doesn’t really help, but it’s comforting and overly sweet and absolutely amazing.

While the rolls bake and John has his back turned, Sherlock steals more lemon curd from the jar and licks the spoon clean with tiny minuscule dips of tongue to savour the flavour, all the while looking at John from the corner of his eye.

John in an apron.

_Oh lord._

 

 

\\\

“There’s soap in your hair.”

Never minding John by the table (with his apron on again, _oh sweet lord_ ), Sherlock barges to the stove, his hair dripping wet and, as stated, still only half rinsed and full of shampoo and his towel only barely secured around his hips.

A pot is simmering on the stove, the deep red sauce bubbling sluggishly every now and then. Sherlock turns around and crowds behind John. The items in front of him on the table include a pot of creamy white cheese sauce, a large pan and lasagne slides.

John turns him around and steers him back towards the bathroom.

“Finish your shower. It’s going to take over half an hour longer with the food,” he says and closes the bathroom door behind him.

 

They don’t spend any time at all on the lasagne. Sherlock empties half the pan in fifteen minutes, eating the lasagne straight from it with a spoon, burning his tongue fantastically with the hot cheese and tomato sauce. John is, once again, the wiser of them and does not burn his tongue or get indigestion later. Sherlock, however, is moaning in the throws of pain and squirming on the sofa an hour later.

“John,” he burps, “I want more lasagne.”

John hands him a glass full of hissing whitish water.

“The lasagne is gone. But there is a lemon meringue pie when you don’t feel like your stomach acids are burning a hole through your intestines anymore.”

The meringue pie disappears even faster than the lasagne. Another hour later, Sherlock is once again on the sofa and John is hurrying out of the door to get more antacids.

 

 

\\\

“Oh, John dear! I had no idea you could cook!” Mrs Hudson chirps when a bowl of artichoke soup is placed in front of her.

Neither had Sherlock before about a week ago, and he has never been so happy to realise he has missed something about someone he thought to have already deduced to the bone.

John smiles at Mrs Hudson encouragingly and places another bowl in front of Sherlock. Before Mrs Hudson has had the chance to even pick up her spoon, Sherlock has already slurped down two enormous spoonfuls of the soup.

John looks disapproving but Mrs Hudson waves it away, saying it’s only nice to see Sherlock eat and for once not something stolen from her fridge. She dips her spoon in and her expression melts to pure contentment. After that, it’s only silent slurps from her side and giant _glorps_ from Sherlock's.

After the starter, John takes the bowls and disappears into the kitchen. Mrs Hudson takes the chance when her mouth is not full of puréed artichoke to call after him and thank for the dinner invitation. Her hip has been bothering her lately, but climbing up the stairs has to be worth it if the main course is half as good as the soup was.

At the exact moment, John reappears. Carrying a giant cast iron pot. Which smells of lamb. And herbs. So many herbs!

John lowers the pot on the table and takes the lid off with an unspoken  _ta_ _-dah_. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson peer inside, Sherlock so excitedly he almost crashes his forehead against hers.

Lamb chops. With caramelised onions, baby potatoes and (Sherlock breathes in deep) _rosemary_. Obviously. It’s the most common herb used with lamb chops but they have never smelt quite like this when he has eaten them before. Not even when Mrs Hudson had cooked it years ago when he had just started college, skinny and hungry, and she invited him to Sunday dinner to get a decent meal.

The said Mrs Hudson begins to applaud at the sight of the dish while John magics up fresh fried asparagus, immediately placing three on Sherlock’s plate, along with some of the golden butter they have been cooked in.

Mrs Hudson beats Sherlock to the food this time, commenting on how she’s never tried cooking the potatoes in the pot together with the meat. John explains it was his mother’s way of cooking them, emphasising how important it is not to put them in too early or they’ll go bad.

Sherlock sends a silent thank you to John’s mother as he bites down on his lamb chop, juice dribbling down his chin, where John picks it up with his thumb before it has time to reach his neck.

 

 

\\\

Mornings now have scones or muffins in them, along with some very healthy home-made muesli bars John hides in Sherlock’s coat pocket when he dashes off to Bart’s or to a crime scene John can’t follow just yet but will be there shortly after his shift at the clinic, so eat your power bar and remember to hydrate! The last is buried under the slam of the door and Sherlock’s eager footsteps skipping along the road to hail a taxi. Sherlock hates muesli bars as a general rule but eats both in the taxi before he even reaches his destination and so next time John puts extra in his pocket.

Lunch is now actually a concept at 221B. While before John made himself a simple salad or bought something from the clinic cafeteria or from a fast food stand whenever he was on the move with Sherlock, there is now a Tupperware full of fresh lettuce, cucumber and spicy roasted chicken waiting for Sherlock to get hungry when John is at the clinic. Or a delicious beef or pork pancake Sherlock doesn’t even bother to heat up. John has marinated the meat himself, and Sherlock can taste his fingerprints in each bite.

Dinner as well, before an infrequent event that usually took place in Sherlock’s life after a case had been wrapped up and he could give in to the hunger gnawing his insides, is now something he finds himself constantly looking forward to. He moves to the kitchen hours before John is to start preparing the dish of the day, sits at his microscope or leafs through evidence boxes, research papers or his own notes on the case that happens to be on. When John walks into the room, rolls up his sleeves and opens the fridge, Sherlock is already at the sink, scrubbing his hands to the elbows with warm soapy water and drying them thoroughly on a clean towel.

Even though he doesn’t eat or cook (or didn’t use to), he knows the importance of good hygiene. And besides himself the Lord only knows what’s been on the slides he inspects through the microscope or how long the evidence boxes have lain in the basement of the NSY.

Hands clean and an apron in front of his 300 quid silk shirt, he chops tomatoes and cheese, learns to gut and fillet a fish, watches John fill a chicken for his birthday dinner.

That one makes him stop for a moment and think back on when this has actually started. It must have been _months_. And he hasn’t noticed until now. John never really used to cook. He would always order take away or eat out or perhaps put beans in a pot and heat it up but that was basically all. If they had a home-cooked meal, it usually came from Mrs Hudson or from a very, _very_ thankful client.

And still he hasn’t noticed.

The next morning in the bathroom, Sherlock lifts up his t-shirt to inspect his stomach and chest. His ribs are not as prominent as they used to be and there is a healthy add of softness to his belly.

He stares at his face in the mirror.

His so very prominent cheekbones that made Irene Adler draw in a very stuttering breath of air are still there but now they couldn’t cut anything or anyone. His jaw is not so prominent anymore nor do his eye sockets look like his eyes are bulging out and might pop out at any moment.

He looks… healthy.

His colour is better and his skin actually feels flexible when he presses his finger against his cheek.

“Sherlock? Are you done preening yourself? I need to use the loo,” John yells from the other side of the locked door.

John. Ever the doctor. So he finally found a way to get food in his mouth and actually trick him to swallow it as well. To actually make him _hungry_. So his years long mission of Getting Sherlock To Eat Like A Regular Human Being has finally succeeded.

And the subject himself doesn’t actually care at all.

That’s how good the food has been.

He exits the bathroom, bumping into John on the way out.

“I do not _preen_ , John,” he says enticingly. “I _groom_.”

 

 

\\\

Sunlight hurts his eyes when he opens them about seven hours later.

His head is pillowed on the Union Jack that usually inhabits John’s chair on the other side of the sitting room. The chair which is now inhabited only by John and what appears to be today’s paper, Sherlock can’t really make out yet.

He blinks a few times to get his eyes and mind to focus. When they do, he thinks first on how much he is sleeping these days. Another side-effect from John’s successful experiment in making him eat.

Ooh, an experiment. He likes that. Makes the whole thing sound more effective. More scientific.

More _Sherlock_.

He smirks to himself when he sees John isn’t doing the crossword puzzle but reading the food section very intensely. He is biting his thumb, clearly already drooling over whatever it is they have on display there.

Sherlock hopes it’s fish. He hasn’t had a good fish in quite a while.

 

 

\\\

He gets his fish. Cooked with tomato sauce and garlic and spices and served with rice with cardamom seeds and cloves in it. And yoghurt raita. And as much of Nepalese beer as he needs to cool down his mouth when the spices hit his palate and make his eyes burn.

A few bottles and three platefuls later Sherlock feels floating, like he can do anything. He leans against the sofa and stretches his legs under the coffee table where they’ve sat to enjoy their dinner. His feet brush John’s, who has crossed his legs under the table, and is cleaning his plate with the last bit of roti. Sherlock entwines his toes with John’s and rests his head against the Union Jack pillow.

 

 

\\\

The next morning there’s an omelette. A plain old omelette which should not smell this enticing. But it has chives in it. And thyme, Sherlock can smell it from metres away. And a decent helping of that fantastic parmesan cheese but not too much for the omelette to be too salty or turn soggy.

John pours him a cup of extremely good Colombian and drops in two cubes of sugar. He is only having toast and jam himself and something that looks like yeast infection in a pot.

“Cottage cheese. You wanna try?”

Sherlock opens his mouth for the spoon. Actually, it does taste all right. Mild, milky, soft and squishy. And John has done nothing to it. He’s just eating it straight from the pot.

His experiment has been very, _very_ successful indeed if Sherlock now enjoys mere pure flavours instead of combinations of them in dishes prepared with time and love by John.

Well done indeed.

John has also baked blueberry pancakes. With real blueberries.

Blueberries that stick to your face.

John swipes his thumb under his lip, but this time Sherlock catches it with his mouth and bites down gently.

John smiles.


End file.
